But I Have Promises To Keep
by Macey Muse
Summary: Akira muses on life, and go.


"Touya-kun." Ichikawa-san's voice is gentle, but firm.

"Oh! Oh yes, I'm sorry, I didn't realise the time." It's dark, and the salon is empty except for the fish. Akira's been bent over his goban for the past several hours with little progress - there's only so long you can stare at even the most fascinating fuseki without stagnating, and he thinks he passed that point several cups of coffee ago.

"It's all right." She's smiling, and Akira feels a quick flash of guilt - it really is very late; he should have headed back to the apartment when the other patrons started to drift away, but he hadn't noticed them leaving. He hasn't noticed much, tonight.

It isn't dark in the street - it can be hard to find actual darkness in Tokyo - but even the moon is hidden, muffled by buildings and gathered clouds. It rained earlier, but now is clear, the sidewalk washed clean for a little while. Even the subway is fresh.

It's late enough that the only people on the platforms have either facial piercings, neon hair, or both. Akira wonders what they must think of him - he's taken to carrying a briefcase for any papers or books he needs, but he's obviously too young to be a salary man despite the suit. He wonders if any of them have ever played go, with parents or at school, if they even know what it is. Sometimes, he forgets that go is completely insignificant to so many people. His world is so insular, so locked up in black and white that it can feel like living in a fishbowl. That's part of why Akira still doesn't have a car - he could probably afford something as flashy as Ogata-san's Mazda by now, but public transport lessens the sensation of disconnection.

Akira doesn't feel this way often, though. When your fishbowl contains the universe, there's little reason to look outside.

Go can be frustrating. Akira isn't like Ochi, destroying himself over every sub-optimal move, or Shindou, to give up completely after some mysterious set-back. But he's human - when he hits a ceiling in his game, battling to climb off a plateau whilst other players are advancing effortlessly - sometimes his pride, his determination, his _passion_ turn on himself. He's not stupid, he can see it happening, but that just leads to more frustration and that's an impossible cycle to break. He bounces off the inside of his own head until there's nothing but the game, the board, moves playing out in his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He hadn't slept for three days after the second match with Shindou.

The train's motion is soothing, and only the dregs of caffeine in his system keep Akira awake enough to remember his stop. He has to manoeuvre around a bicycle to reach the door, apologising to its yawning owner, but the draft outside is chill enough to wake him up. It's not far to the flat, which had been a selling point - he prefers to ride the train when possible. It's easy, fast, and the people riding are so wrapped up in their own little bubbles that it's almost companionable for Akira to slip into thoughts about his matches.

His mother's been hinting that he should start looking for a girlfriend. He's twenty years old, and she gets worried, but Akira can't find a way to tell her that he doesn't really want to share. His entry hall is cramped, and there might be only one pair of house shoes waiting, but Akira isn't lonely. He doesn't know how to relate to girls; they're far more social than he's ever been, and it can be intimidating. He's dreading the moment his mother starts introducing friends' daughters - he doesn't want to be distracted right now, and it doesn't seem fair on the girls when he's far more interested in games than dates.

Akira has always wondered at his parents' love. His father was the Meijin, had held more titles than anyone else for longer - but he still finds room to love his wife, and she has always been utterly devoted to him. Akira might not want dating, and right now he doesn't want love, but in the future, he can't think of anything better than finding that type of relationship.

The building has automatic heating; Akira's room is a far more comfortable temperature than the night air outside, and he opens the cupboard to pull down his futon without looking at the covered goban. Experience has taught that very little temptation is required before a night's sleep is sacrificed to the gods of go, and he has a match in the morning. It's a second preliminary, and Akira is looking forward to it - not that he doesn't anticipate all games, but tournaments always have more spirit behind them than ordinary oteiai match-ups, and this time he's hopeful for fireworks. Akira doesn't understand anyone who could think go boring.

Futon spread neatly, Akira can't stop himself from glancing across the room. Whilst he does need the sleep, it seems a shame to leave his board untouched after a day out. Maybe if he just laid out the game he'd been examining...

Quickly, he brings the board into the center of his room, leaving its cover folded by the wall. In a very real way, the board is what makes this apartment a home; its smooth wood has a dull shine under the eco-friendly bulb, still so new that the varnish is perfect. His father had bought it for him on his twentieth birthday, a combination coming-of-age and leaving-home present, and Akira refuses to think how much it must have cost. A new board for a new life. No matter that it had been several years since his parents were a permanent presence in their house; it had still been very much a _family_ home, with echoes of their lives embedded in the very walls. This place is Akira's, wholey and completely.

With those thoughts, Akira has to let a smile slip loose as he lays out the first hand. His father regularly sends kifu, and one had arrived just this morning from Korea - a match with one of their older pros. The pro had won black, and his hands were clean and elegant, his shapes classic. He was a powerful player. Touyo Kouyo had simply gone above him. The shape of white's game - it was as if someone had given the experience of the Meijin to a twenty-year-old. The hands held such energy and enthusiasm, tempered with such deep-seated wisdom, that Akira had evidently been held enraptured for an entire evening in their strength. Where black was clean, white was flawless.

Sometimes, Akira despairs of ever reaching that sheer instinctive knowledge. But at others, when he can reach so deeply into a game as profound as his father's and _understand_, without effort, as if their hands were moving us one - Akira knows he will get there. All he has to do is wait.

And keep fighting.


End file.
